


Black Is the Colour

by Vulgarweed



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling, Lord of the Rings - Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguably Necrophilia, Black Robes Fetishism, Crack, Dubious Consent, M/M, Need Brain Bleach, PWP, Rare Pairing, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So where do bad guys get their sexy outfits--and what goes on in the changing rooms? Featuring BlackRobes!kink - a HP/LOTR crossover of the very worst kind. Originally written in late 2001 or early 2002, making it possibly my first fanfic ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Is the Colour

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Black Is the Colour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7940368) by [fandomRetellingsCrossovers2016](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomRetellingsCrossovers2016/pseuds/fandomRetellingsCrossovers2016), [TheGreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreen/pseuds/TheGreen)



The shop was one of the anchors of Crossroads Interparadigm  
Mall--it had been there nearly as long as the mall itself, and  
carried a bit of age and mustiness and the scent and feel of old  
high-quality wood, sensations as rare in this mall as in any  
other.

Perhaps in part due to its very venerability and tradition,  
there was a timelessness about its wares. It had gone by many  
names, but as media began to consolidate and the old stories  
appear and re-appear in ever-morphing tangled forms, it began to  
take on names it could be called in general parlance. Lately it  
had taken to being rather more open and descriptive than usual:  
Bram's of Carpathia: The Very Finest in Sinister Menswear.

It was still a beautiful place, and definitely still quite  
exclusive: the innocent-eyed, the sneer-impaired and hissless,  
the guileless and self-sacrificing and unflinchingly noble, felt  
as unwelcome as ever and avoided the place as they always had.  
Maybe the kids didn't like cardboard villains anymore, as some  
were beginning to whisper, but the old niceties of who got to  
dress well were still faithfully observed. Anarchy did not yet  
prevail.

Nor had anybody's idea of new designer colours gained much  
ground here. Although there was a section of deep blood crimson  
and another of masculine military grays and greens and navies,  
for the most part the shelves and racks of boots and suits and  
cloaks and fedoras and Stetsons came in one colour: Sable. Jet.  
Ebony. Raven. Grave Interior. Moonless Sky. The Void. Past the  
Event Horizon. Brand-New Asphalt. You get the idea. And with  
that limited but eloquent palette, in any fabric, Bram's tailors  
could create the perfect eerie and yet elegant image for nearly  
any suave evil-doer or black-hearted rogue.

The man who walked into the store this evening was tall and  
imposing and dressed all in black, but who wasn't? Trying not to  
catch too long a glimpse of his oily hair and aquiline beak, he  
instead immersed himself in fondling long lines of finely sewn  
robes in black gabardine, perfect against the damp winds of  
Scotland. It was when he was starting to get really absorbed in  
the beauty of a winter cloak lined in black fox fur that he  
noticed in the corner of his eye the even taller stranger in a  
hooded black cloak, who had chosen a patch of dark carpet a bit  
too close to his own to lurk in.

That wasn't unusual. The clientele of Bram's tended to  
specialize in menacing, and it was no surprise they'd sometimes  
try out their moves on each other, in what was traditionally a  
neutral zone for the dark side. But this particular man had  
reason to worry, as although he still affected the style--it  
suited him well, and he knew no other--he had serious reasons to  
doubt his sincere evilness. In his brooding heart, of course he  
knew that what counted was that no one else doubted it--yet  
uncertainty in his line of archetype could be fatal. So he  
stiffened only briefly, and prepared to whirl about to face the  
entity that was making his personal space unpleasantly chill and  
clammy, even by his dungeon-dwelling standards. He caught a  
whiff of the grave, but before he could take this into account  
he felt a tug on his sleeve. Touching was verboten here. This  
was serious.

And a cold, thin voice that made even this longtime traveler's  
unshakeable spine quiver, the creature hissed, "Hhhhave you  
ssssseeen Bagginsssss?"

The man furrowed his brow. His left forearm was not burning in  
any way, not even slightly. Not one of his, then. "Who is this  
Baggins? I don't know him and I don't know of him. Don't think  
he was ever a student of mine."

The tall, rather regal creature sniffed the air. The man tried  
to see his face, but only caught twin flickers of unhealthy  
starlight from underneath his rough black hood. "Come to the  
dressssssing room," it said, beckoning with an unnaturally long  
finger in a black leather glove, tossing some cloakage over its  
arm--or where its arm seemed to be.

The man hesitated, searching surreptitiously for the familiar  
feel of his wand in an inner pocket of his own cloak. _What the  
hell,_ he thought. _I might learn something. I don't think it's  
allowed to hurt me_. He had another motivation even than that,  
but he wasn't ready to admit it yet at this stage in the story.  
At the very least, he could find out what this creature was, and  
what its objectives were--aside from the two obvious ones that  
is, only one of which did the man think he could help it with.

It wasn't much of a conversationalist. "Where issssss  
Bagginsssssss?" it demanded.

"Well, I'm not hiding him in my robes!" the man snarled, trying  
to fend off the skeletal, clutching hands. He couldn't help but  
notice that every part of him it touched went slightly cold and  
numb, which was so much the opposite of the usual intended  
effect he was starting to find it fascinating. "Who are you? Is  
that your huge, heavily armoured black horse outside?"

The creature bent the space where its neck should be. Was that  
a crown sparkling under the hood? "Yesssssss. And you?"

"I flew here on a broomstick, if you must know."

"That issssssss rather poncssssssy."

"I'm not the one groping strangers in a dressing room."

"Yeesssssss, you are......nowwwww."

He yanked his hands away. "Who are you?" He drew himself up to  
his full height, but he was still shorter than the...thing. Oh  
well. "I am Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of  
Witchcraft and Wizardry." No, that didn't sound as ominous as  
he'd hoped.

"I was once the Witch-King of Angmar...now I am the Lord of  
Nothingness, and I serve only one Masssster."

Oh, this one was good. "Well, I won't tread on your Master's  
turf, then. I think your problem's nothing that a Corporeality  
Potion combined with a pinch of Speaker's Ease Speech Impediment  
Potion couldn't cure, but I'll be going now...."

"Waaaaaaiiit," the creature breathed, and Severus found himself  
slammed against the wall of the dressing room as the lights went  
dim (which the other shoppers were completely used to.) "I  
wiissssssh to know you further. My Massssster sssseeess all, and  
he demandssss it. If you wissssh to ssseeee me-"

Severus looked into bottomless darkness between the glowing  
eyes, and glanced down at the extended glove that was not the  
one that held him pinned like a moth. In the palm there was a-

"You mussssst wear thisssss ring."

"N-no," Snape stammered. "I'm not ready for a commitment."

Yet the ring was quite a lovely thing, beckoning with a  
deceptively wholesome golden light, although Severus had no  
doubt the black stone had the depth hidden within it to contain  
a stolen soul, and he wondered what the hell he was doing  
accepting anything from a personage that resembled in any way an  
unusually charismatic Dementor.

And before he knew it, it was on his finger. Had he put it on?  
He couldn't remember.

And he looked up at the proud creature that was now glowing  
with a pale funguslike light--square jawed and skeletal,  
handsome somehow and yet fell and unclean, cold as bones and yet  
somehow heating a hidden flicker of monstrous desire within him,  
and it was smirking, and intent, and unfastening his robes.

"What-what happened to you?" Severus gasped, as his skin shrank  
away from the cold breath on his neck.

"It wasssss the ring, mortal fool," hissed the tall beast as  
its hand moved downward. Now Snape could see and feel it clearly  
as he swooned in the twilight between the worlds of the living  
and the dead. He wanted now to force it from his hand before it  
was too late, and realized in another sense it already was. By  
psychic pressure and physical, the Witch-King--oh great, was it  
hermaphroditic too?, was pushing him to his knees. He only  
whimpered a little, but what he was thinking was that it had  
been a long time since he had sucked any undead cock, and now  
that he was a man and tired of the boyish horndog slumming that  
had gotten him into the Death Eaters in the first place, he  
hoped this would at least be new and different somehow.

He tried to register a formal protest, "Actually, I'm rather a  
top myself, normally..."

"I am the King of the Nazzzgul, and you a weak mortal man,  
doomed to death."

"Well, I am a wizard...."

The King of the Nazgul spat ectoplasm on the floor. "No  
wizzzzard can withssstand the full force of the Nine."

He meant inches, Severus surmised as the black  
chain-mail-covered trousers before him were opened. And took a  
deep breath.

Cold. Cold and rotten, a rancid, musty, swampily moist  
lichsicle it was, and yet Severus Snape had always taken pride  
in his iron stomach and impervious throat--how long could a  
Potions Master survive without them? The chill glove at the back  
of his head seemed, impossibly to be warming slightly as he  
worked, with skilled but rusty lips and tongue. He reached up  
his shaking hands-the ring always in the corner of his  
half-closed eye-and took a handful of brittle pelvic bone. The  
Witch-King leaned into it, fucking Severus's mouth with a  
haughty gusto.

Then the hand clenched painfully in his hair, and Snape felt  
himself yanked upward to gaze into that faded, glowing, lifeless  
face. "The massssster wants to ssseee me fuck you."

Well, this is kinky, Severus thought through his half-faint.  
And the Nazgul had certainly never asked for a safeword. But  
that notion alone shot through his nervous system like an  
electric jolt, and as the whole front half of his body hit the  
wall he could not longer deny that he was rigor-mortis hard  
himself. His last half-conscious thought was relief that the  
Bram's staff was well aware of subtext and kept a discreet pot  
of lube in every dressing room for just this purpose, frequent  
as this use of the dressing room was. And sure enough, he felt  
that bony finger enter him first, smeared with goo that was cold  
but still warmer than the prick of the Nazgul.

As Snape was not-gently forced open and penetrated, he cried  
out with a savage pain-pleasure blend that hopefully gave this  
Masssster, wherever he was, an unholy boner of his own. The  
Ringwraith rode him hard, sliding in and out with a wicked  
deliberation that made Sev squirm and sob in the most obsequious  
fashion. When he felt the hand enclose his own aching shaft, he  
moaned, well aware the entire shop could hear. Could hear the  
rattling of the dressing-room door with the force of the  
creature's pounding, in fact. He was dimly aware that he was  
chewing his own hand, the one that cushioned his face against  
the wall, the one that wore the ring. If he wasn't tripping and  
swooning he'd have been able to swear that the ring pulsated  
slighly around his finger, expanding and contracting like an  
enchanted gold sphincter itself.

Slowly, Snape and the Witch-King sank to the floor together. As  
the cold insistence against his prostate and the rhythm of that  
skeletal claw enclosing his prick tightly reached a fever pitch  
of cruelty, Severus let out a horrid strangled cry and came  
violently, shooting against the wall. The Ringwraith was right  
behind him in all respects: he or it thrust once more cruelly,  
straight to his core, and vibrated there like a brutal  
tuning-fork. A long-drawn wail came down the wind, like the cry  
of some evil and lonely creature. It rose and fell and ended on  
a high piercing note.

Time hung suspended, and well-hung indeed it was: Severus was  
paralyzed, caught in a back-arching moment, fading from within  
from the deadly spurt of the Morgul-cock. Sensation left his  
limbs, and his mind was growing dim....

Not your normal afterglow... no, dying, not now_, he thought as  
he began the long slide into darkness as the Witch-King withdrew  
and loomed over him. Desperately he groped amid the wreckage of  
his robes that lay at the black-steel-booted feet. His shaking  
hand closed around a reassuring length of wood. With the last of  
his strength and consciousness, Severus groaned, "Ex-expecto  
patronum."

Hanging on, he saw the silvery image of the godlike Brighton  
lifeguard he had known at fourteen rise forward and swirl around  
the Dark creature. The Ringwraith hissed and backed off, as the  
ring rolled off Sev's limp hand. The ring appeared once again on  
the black glove, and the creature disappeared.

Severus took a few seconds of rest in his partial faint before  
shakily climbing to his feet and cleaning himself off as best he  
could. Dressing and leaning on the door for a moment, he  
staggered back into the shop. The Nazgul was still there. Snape  
watched him glide up to a new tall stranger in black, this one  
wearing a sort of bowl-cut helmet and mask and seeming to have  
some kind of respiratory problem. He heard once again the hiss,  
"Hhhhave you sssseeeen Bagginsssss?"

Zombie slut, he thought as he slipped out of the store.  
Thinking he might be gettng old for this, he resolved to break  
down and do a bit more of his shopping in Diagon Alley from now  
on after all.

Far, far away, in a dark tower in another land, a giant red eye  
halfway closed in a dreamy, satiated fashion.

 

END


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